


there is no barrier between us

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Smut, Natasha's fascinated with Pierre's hands, not a whole lot of plot goin' on here but I ain't sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: In which Natasha is fascinated with Pierre's hands and the Bezukhovs enjoy the benefits of married life.





	there is no barrier between us

This was Natasha’s favorite sort of night: their private sitting room, her, her husband, one sofa, and their respective books. Pierre was engrossed in some historical tome, while Natasha was paging through a volume of saints’ lives. The little book rested on her lap; she turned pages with one hand while she caressed Pierre’s hand with the other, her fingers mindlessly skimming over the lines of his palm while she read.

She was halfway through the story of Natalia of Nicomedia when she heard Pierre clear his throat.

“Natasha?”

“Hmm?” She did not raise her eyes from the page.

“I’ve…” His voice sounded oddly constricted. “I’ve read the same sentence at least six times.”

She glanced at his face and found him flushing to the tips of his ears. Pierre swallowed and flexed his hand under her fingers.

_Oh._

Natasha turned her book over and placed it on the side table. A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she pulled Pierre’s hand closer to her face and continued her feather-light tracing of his skin.

“Is my hand…really that fascinating?” Pierre asked her, his voice hitching as she raked her nails gently over his wrist.

“I’ve always liked your hands,” Natasha murmured. “They’re so much bigger than mine,” –she pressed her own palm briefly against his for comparison, “and they’re strong. There’s something about them that just makes me feel safe. Sonya says there are people who can read your future in your palm, but yours reminds me of your past—of everything you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done much, Natasha.”

“Oh, hush, Petrushka,” she said, pressing a tender kiss to his palm. “You held me in my grief, and who knows where we’d be if you hadn't ’t, so don’t you talk about ‘haven’t done much’. Think of all the letters you’ve written with these hands, and how you tossed Nikolenka through the air when he was small—do you remember how he would giggle and shriek? And…” Natasha looked up at him through her lashes, her memory full of candles and crowns and a stole wrapped around their joined hands, “you married me.”

She held his gaze and raised his hand to her mouth again. He felt her kisses flutter across his skin, then her lips parted, and his world was reduced to the heat of her tongue drawing lazy circles against the grooves of his palm. His heart began to race, his mouth tingled with the need to kiss her, and still she continued to kiss and lick at him, never taking her eyes from his.

And then she turned her head, just so, and he just had time to notice the beautiful curve of her neck before she slowly took his index finger into her mouth.

“Good God, Natasha, that’s not _fair_ …”

Her tongue was soft and oddly strong against his skin; he moaned as she scraped her teeth over his knuckle and sucked at him in earnest. Hands weren’t this erogenous all the time, were they? They couldn’t possibly be, or nobody would ever get anything done.

Natasha loved that she could do this to him, that she was the reason he was biting his lip and squirming where he sat. They were so good together, her with that passion that so often went hidden under the layer of necessary propriety, and him with a certain shyness that gave way to ardor almost without warning. So often with him she felt like she was burning, and she loved it.

She drew her lips across his finger one last time and gave him half of an arch smile as she reached for her book.

Her first thought as he dropped his own book and knocked her hand away was that he moved incredibly fast for such a large man. Her second thought, as he pressed that hand and pulled her toward him, was that she probably deserved whatever was about to happen next.

She did not have a third thought, because her mental function seemed to have dissolved in the presence of Pierre, his mouth shamelessly open against hers, his tongue already inside her mouth.

He kissed her hungrily, as though they had gone some great length of time without seeing each other and her absence had caused him to fall ill with something that could only be cured by the slide of her tongue against his and the pressure of her fingers against the back of his head.

One of his arms was around her waist, guiding her backwards, and she could feel him going hard against her as he pressed her into the sofa.

And then he pulled away.

Natasha tipped her head back until it bumped against the armrest. “Turnabout is fair play, I suppose,” she groaned.

“No, it’s…” Pierre was still catching his breath. “Self-control is a virtue, after all. Not letting your passions carry you away.”

She blinked at him. “Pierre…I give you permission to let your passions carry you as far as you want. It is one of the many, many reasons I married you.”

Pierre tilted his head to the side. “What’s that?”

And he winked.

Her mouth fell open. _You shameless tease_.

“We’re _married_ , Petrushka, and if you’ve forgotten, you can look down at the ring on your beautiful right hand.”

Pierre pushed himself even farther away and held his hand in front of his face. “Well, would you look at that.”

“Stop mocking me and come back here,” Natasha whined.

Pierre’s face softened as he lowered himself back down on her. “Anything for you, my love.” His mouth found hers again, his kisses slow and soft and doing absolutely nothing to stop the tension coiling low in Natasha’s body. She rocked herself against him, almost without meaning to, and he broke the kiss, his lips barely brushing hers as he said, “If I may?”

It took her a moment to realize that he had one hand fisted in her skirts.

She nodded. “Please.”

He braced himself on one arm and leveraged himself up enough to raise her skirts up, past her ankles to her knees, and then farther, until they were bunched around her waist and she was exposed to him.

“So beautiful,” he sighed. There were days when she enchanted him so much he felt like he shouldn’t look directly at her—she was almost too much, the sun of his life.

He traced her lips with his middle finger before gently pushing it into her mouth. Pierre had never considered that one could make love with only tongues and hands, but here was Natasha, living proof that it was, in fact, possible.

He withdrew his finger a few moments later and covered her mouth with his as he moved his hand between them and slid his wet finger against the sensitive spot at the top of her sex. She squealed against his mouth and kissed him harder, lacing her hands around the back of his neck as he rubbed at the dampness gathering between her legs.

He pressed one more kiss to her lips and drew back, only able to concentrate on so much at once. This was the delicate part, after all, those moments where a sharp movement here or a wrong angle there could bring them both out of this perfect, breathless moment.

“Do you want me here, Tasha?” he asked, pressing his finger against her entrance.

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

“There’s no one else in this part of the house,” he murmured, his warm breath caressing her ear. “The servants are all upstairs in bed or downstairs waiting for us to ring. Be as loud as you like.”

He slid his finger inside her, just barely, and Natasha made a noise in the back of her throat that he would remember for a long time. “If you want me inside you, Natasha,” he said, stroking her lightly and feeling where she was still closed to him, “you’ll need to relax for me, love. Can you do that?” He rolled his thumb against her clit and felt her widen, drawing his finger deeper.

“Pierre…”

“Hmmm?” He pressed soft kisses against Natasha’s neck. “Is this alright? Tell me what you want.”

“Harder,” she gasped, squirming against him. “That feels so good, Pierre, please…”

He began to stroke firmer, faster, and Natasha lost herself in the feel of his hand against her, inside her, touching her shamelessly in all the places she wanted him most. Even just one of his fingers was no small thing, and she felt herself stretching as he thrust into her, wanting to take him as deep as she could.

She still had no words for it—no adequate ones, at least—for what he made her feel, for the warmth that found its way to every part of her body, all the way down to her toes, and all from him _touching_ her.

He curled his finger inside her and she dug her nails into his shoulders, grateful for the layers of clothing that protected his skin as she tried not to scream. “Right there! Like that, Petrushka, sweetheart, my sunshine, good God…”

“You’re so wet, Tasha,” Pierre groaned. “Can you take another?” He pressed his index finger against her.

“Yes, go slow but yes, please, _please_.”

“You’re enchanting,” he said as he slid a second finger inside her, allowing her to draw him in. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, always, but when you’re like this, I wonder how, how I ever got to see this and be here…”

He was almost as far gone as she was; watching her was nearly as pleasurable as having her touch him.

Natasha had no words left. She had no awareness beyond her own body—the twinge of her passage stretching again, the almost ticklish feeling of Pierre’s fingers moving against that perfect spot inside her, the building tension that would break soon, _had_ to break soon.

“So close,” she managed, and Pierre ground his palm against her as he pulled his fingers almost all the way out of her, then thrust them back in with one swift movement. She was clinging to him, moving with him, and then she was _there_ , she could feel herself clenching around him, it almost hurt, she never wanted it to end, he was perfect, solid, still moving in her, wringing every last bit of pleasure from her center, she couldn’t see, everything was warm and smelled like Pierre, and still it didn’t _stop_ …

She felt his arm around her waist and wasn’t sure when he had put it there, but she was glad, she needed it, she needed him right there, holding her when her climax finished.

Natasha collapsed against the sofa, her hair in complete disarray, lips swollen, heart racing. She felt utterly exhausted, and strangely on the verge of tears.

Pierre slowly withdrew his fingers and sucked at them, savoring every last bit of her taste. He pushed himself into a sitting position and pulled Natasha’s legs across his lap, rearranging the hem of her skirts around her knees.

“How are you?” he asked, reaching to brush a curl of hair away from her forehead.

“I’m…” She reached for his clean hand and pressed it between her own. “Incandescent, and utterly worn out, and so…so…” Her eyes were brimming; she blinked and the tears began to fall. “I don’t know why I’m…Everything was perfect, and I just…I just love you, Pierre. Love you, love you…”

Pierre leaned over her and she felt his lips against her face, kissing away her tears. She gave a small, watery laugh.

“Love you too, Tasha,” he whispered, “more than my own life.”

Her mouth found his and she kissed him softly. “And what about you, my love?”

“What about—oh, you mean…” She meant the strain in his trousers that was becoming uncomfortable. “What do you say to preparing for bed, and you can worry about it then?”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmm, Tasha, you know me.” He brushed his nose against hers. “The wait makes it even better.”

“Does that apply to other things? Marrying me, for instance?”

“Well,” Pierre pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’d say so, but I’m glad I don’t have to wait for that ever again.”

The history book was picked up off the floor and placed on the table with the hagiography. They dismissed the servants for the night, choosing instead to undress each other. And after the flushing of skin against skin and more muffled love-cries, the candles were extinguished, the bed curtains pulled, and Natasha and Pierre fell asleep together, bodies intertwined in the soft darkness.

 


End file.
